


aphelion

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Bahorel is a Good Friend, Break Up, Enjolras Has Feelings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I probably forgot something but pls read the warnings, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining Enjolras, as i write this tag i still don't know what the title is going to be, enjolras is not okay, grantaire is trying, honestly i am so sorry this fic is labelled garbage can fic on my computer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:33:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10848429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: If Enjolras could do it all over, he’d be a cosmologist. There’s a physicist that comes around, sits in a booth sipping a strawberry milkshake and thinking about the secrets hidden in the wrinkles of spacetime. Enjolras thinks there’s nothing but light in the crinkles on his face, born from good years spent in the sun. Maybe that could’ve been him, in a different life.(aphelion. the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is farthest from a sun.)





	aphelion

**Author's Note:**

> tw/cw abusive relationships, cw anxiety, panic attacks, alcohol, and bad thoughts. many thanks to caitlyn (wise-up-eyes-up @ tumblr/screwsfallout @ ao3) for the multitude of help in brainstorming and helping it find an ending.

If Enjolras could do it all over, he’d be a cosmologist. He would study the marriage of space and time, take comfort in the vastness of the universe. There’s a physicist that comes around, sits in a booth sipping a strawberry milkshake and thinking about the secrets hidden in the wrinkles of spacetime. Enjolras thinks there’s nothing but light in the crinkles on his face, born from good years spent in the sun. Maybe that could’ve been him, in a life where Enjolras goes to college, in a life where Enjolras’s physics teacher in high school isn’t an asshole.

Instead, Enjolras has Grantaire’s copy of _A Brief History of Time_ in his backpack and clothes that smell like the restaurant he just came from: grease and sweat and beer and syrup. The one he’s in right now is a lot nicer; it’s a cute, modern, new Italian place that his roommates ordered from. 

Enjolras has just gotten the bags, is turning around, when he sees him. 

Grantaire looks… good. He’s sitting in a booth, his hair newly trimmed, and he’s wearing a blue button-down that Enjolras hasn’t seen before. He’s drinking a glass of white wine, and he’s laughing. 

Oh. He’s with someone. 

Enjolras can’t bring himself to look away. Grantaire’s grin, it’s so much wider than Enjolras has seen in years, and just looking at it makes it hard to breathe again. He knows, he knows that he hurt Grantaire, that he said things that can’t be forgotten or forgiven, but it’s barely been a month and Grantaire is happier than Enjolras has ever seen him. 

In an instant, Enjolras goes from being unable to look away to being unable to stay in the same restaurant a minute longer. He didn’t think that it would hurt this much, seeing him with someone else, and maybe it isn’t that he’s already moved on. Maybe it’s because Enjolras is still in love with him.

It’s why Enjolras knows that he made the right decision, staying away from their mutual friends (his only friends). Grantaire is thriving, looking healthier and well-dressed, and Enjolras knows that he can’t interfere. Not when Grantaire is happy. 

He doesn’t know if Grantaire sees him leave, but Enjolras can’t see beyond those shiny curls and that blinding, beautiful grin with that crooked front tooth. He knows, god does he know that he looks like shit. His hair is short and messy and uneven, and he’s lost weight because he might have two roommates, now, but it’s in too good of a neighborhood for Enjolras to really afford, and he’s gone back to almost minimum wage, because he’s working at a different restaurant and almost five year’s worth of raises is down the toilet. 

And he can’t bring himself to sell the ring.

:: ::

Enjolras likes his roommates a lot. Combeferre’s a medical student, the same school and year as Joly, Grantaire’s best friend; Courfeyrac is computer scientist at some company downtown. They’re kind, and they seem to be genuinely trying to make friends with him.

That’s why he doesn’t dismiss what Courfeyrac had said out of hand. 

_”Maybe you should try seeing someone, too.”_

Oh god, how he wishes he had.

:: ::

Enjolras meets Guillarme at work. He’s large, muscular from construction work, and he’s never pretended not to be interested in Enjolras. Enjolras doesn’t really like the way Guillarme seems to leer at him, but he’s felt so fucking lonely since seeing Grantaire that he agrees to a date.

Enjolras thinks he feels what Courfeyrac was talking about, that one night. It’s nice, being out on a date.

He moves in with Guillarme a month into their relationship, and that’s the end of his brief friendship with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He just doesn’t have time to haul out to their neighborhood, because when he’s not at work he’s at the apartment with Guillarme. 

Guillarme doesn’t like going out with Enjolras, anymore. He gets jealous, and Enjolras doesn’t want to deal with it. Guillarme has taken to picking Enjolras up from work, too. Rent is tight, so food budget is low, but that’s nothing new for Enjolras. And Guillarme is right when he says he needs the food more than Enjolras; his job makes more money and it’s so much more physical. Besides, Enjolras can score a free meal at his work, sometimes. 

It’s okay. He’s happier, now. Like Grantaire.

Why is it still so hard to breathe?

:: ::

Enjolras can’t take the tightness in his chest, anymore, and it gets worse the longer he and Guillarme are in the same room. That should set off a warning flag, but Enjolras is convinced it’s just him being stupid, irrational. There’s no _reason_ for him to be this anxious all the time.

So he fills his water bottle with vodka at work, just to make it possible for him to breathe enough to get through the day. 

Then Bahorel and Feuilly show up at the diner, and based on the looks on their faces Enjolras knows there’s really no choice but for him to take his break and join them. 

“Enjolras, I swear to god that better be water,” Feuilly says, taking in Enjolras’s bony shoulders and dull eyes. When he steals it and smells that it isn’t, he sighs that heavy sigh that Enjolras hasn’t heard in months. “What the fuck, Enjolras.” 

“You dropped off the face of the earth, man. No one wanted that.” That’s Bahorel, now, his thumb rubbing over Enjolras’s knuckles comfortingly when it’s clear he’s starting to shut down. “I get giving him space and time, but it’s been months. You moved jobs, moved places, and your phone has been disconnected. We didn’t… you’re still our friend, E.” 

“It’s just hard. There’s a lot of history, and I couldn’t… it’s too much,” Enjolras tries to explain, looking down when Guillarme all but storms into the diner. “I have to go take care of something. Be right back.” 

Enjolras can’t look his friends in the face when he returns, because Guillarme isn’t in a good mood, and he knows that they’re watching as Guillarme slaps Enjolras’s ass on his way back to his friends. 

“You’re dating him,” Feuilly states, his dark nose crinkling almost involuntarily. 

“His name is Guillarme,” Enjolras whispers after he nods. He knows, he knows when he looks up, they’re going to see it in Enjolras’s eyes that he isn’t over Grantaire, and when he does Bahorel just puts his head in his hands. 

“You still love Grantaire. But you’re dating this asshole,” he mutters, but thankfully he’s keeping his voice down. 

“I know Grantaire’s seeing someone, too. I saw them at a restaurant near my old apartment. He looks… happy.” Dammit, Enjolras cannot cry. He can’t cry about this in front of Bahorel or Feuilly, and certainly not in front of Guillarme. 

“Are you happy, Enjolras?” Feuilly asks, as Enjolras stands up to go back to work. 

Enjolras manages a nod and a convincing smile, he thinks. 

He doesn’t know how worried Bahorel suddenly is.

:: ::

“He dumped you when you were going to fucking propose to him?” Guillarme is angrier than Enjolras has ever seen him. “Why didn’t you sell the ring? Have I not loved you, taken care of you, and you’re… you’re still in love with him. He treated you like shit and--”

“He didn’t,” Enjolras says, voice shaking in its defiance. He’s hungry and tired and Guillarme has no right to be this pissed about a ring. A ring that has nothing to do with him. But Enjolras vows to keep it on him, hidden inside his backpack, from then on. 

It’s the first time that Guillarme hits Enjolras.

:: ::

“Good news, I have finally pieced together Enjolras’s work schedule. He has a closing shift tonight. Wanna hang out there?” Bahorel declares, entering the cafe just off of the college campus.

“Where is he working?” That’s Grantaire. He hasn’t been to the new restaurant, but he and Enjolras have both been at things with the entire group, but they’ve never talked alone. Guillarme always seems to keep both a hand on Enjolras’s waist and far away from Grantaire.

“Shady diner back by the Corinthe. He says it pays enough, but Enjolras always says that.” Feuilly tops it off with a shrug. 

“Do we know if it actually is? He looks thin.” Grantaire’s face has creased. 

“I don’t think so,” Joly says, frowning a little. “We keep hanging out in cafes and restaurants, and I haven’t seen him buy anything.” 

“At least he’s stopped bringing alcohol to work,” Bahorel gets out, his face darkening. “I don’t know what it is. He just looks tired, to me.” 

“He’s quieter, too,” Combeferre comments, his forehead creasing enough so that his glasses slide down his nose. “Is he still dating that guy… Gilbert or something?”

“Guillarme,” Feuilly supplies. “Yeah. He’ll be in five minutes before closing to wait for Enjolras.” 

“You don’t sound too thrilled.” That’s Grantaire, again. “Is he really that much of an asshole?” 

“Yeah, and it’s not just that. It’s almost impossible to get Enjolras alone,” Bahorel comments, frowning. “That’s odd, right?” 

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Guillarme shouldn’t be at Enjolras’s work right now, right? Let’s go hang out with him.”

:: ::

“You told me you were working. God, Enj, can I not fucking trust you with anything?” Enjolras is kneeling, knees pressed against thin carpeting, hands clutching the towel he’s using to scrub away his own blood.

“They’re just friends. I promise, I didn’t know they were coming,” Enjolras tries, but all he gets for his effort is a backhand so hard that Enjolras’s neck twists from the force. 

“I know you think they’re your friends, but they’re not. You don’t have friends, Enj. Would they still be there if Grantaire wasn’t pining after you?” 

“He’s not--he’s not pining. He’s got someone, now, and they’re happy. It’s not like that.” Enjolras is crying, now. 

“What the fuck were you two even talking about?” Guillarme pauses, looking down at Enjolras’s bleeding mouth and rapidly bruising face. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I just… I don’t want them hurting you like that again. I don’t trust them, and I don’t want you going to that cafe again.”

Then Guillarme is out the door again. 

Enjolras’s eyes haven’t left the carpet, but he can’t help but smile when he thinks about his conversation with Grantaire.

:: ::

Guillarme can stop him from going to the cafe, but he can’t stop them from going to the diner. And it’s fucking worth it, to Enjolras, no matter how pissy it makes Guillarme. Enjolras has gotten closer with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and Grantaire is smiling at him, again. He knows it’s fucked up, okay, it’s fucked up that he feels happiest on the nights that Guillarme isn’t there. It’s just, it’s not even like he feels like he’s suffocating or drowning or anything around Guillarme. It feels like he’s washing away, becoming the water.

When he’s with Grantaire, with all of them, it’s possible to swim without _being_ the water. 

It’s what he’s clinging to, now. Guillarme found out about the vodka at work, and now Enjolras doesn’t even have that. His chest, it’s so heavy and so tight all of the goddamn time, and he doesn’t know how much more he can even take. 

It’s fucked up. 

He knows, god he knows that they can’t be his friends, not really, when there’s this chasm between him and Grantaire. Guillarme is all he’s got; Enjolras has got no money, nowhere to go, and it’s not so bad, anyways. He’s happier now than he was alone… that’s how this works, right? And yet he’s deliberately pissing Guillarme off, hanging out with the only people he really hates. 

He just needs that breath of air, then he can go back to drowning.

:: ::

“Is this Tristan Grantaire?” Fuck, Grantaire knows that voice.

“Hey, Rob. Who needs to be bailed out this time?” It’s five in the morning, and Grantaire just went to sleep a few hours ago. He’s going to fucking murder whichever friend it is. 

“Enjolras. Look, he refused to call anyone, and I know you two aren’t a thing anymore, but this is the only number I remember and he’s--” Fuck. Grantaire’s brain is jumping to all of the worst places right now. Enjolras, he claims he’s been getting into fights, explaining away blackened eyes and sprained wrists. 

But Grantaire knows how easily those knuckles swell and bruise, and they’ve only gotten bonier and paler. 

“I’ll be right there. What’s he in for?” Grantaire’s quickly hopping into a pair of jeans, trying to keep the phone next to his ear. 

“Drunk, got into a fight with a dude three times his size. When the cops showed up he punched one and said he started it, so we had to let the other guy go. Took Enjolras to the ER, though, after we booked him. He’s got a bad concussion, and he’s still a little intoxicated,” he explains. 

“Thanks, Rob. I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Grantaire is there in ten minutes. After he fills out the forms and pays the bail, Enjolras is brought out quickly. He’s barely walking straight, the officers’ hands on his shoulders the only thing keeping him on the right path. The officers look concerned; Enjolras has been their resident stray since he was thirteen years old, and they know when something is wrong. 

“Oh shit,” Enjolras mumbles, before throwing his best attempt at a glare Rob’s way. It’s not impressive.

“You were refusing to call someone. And there’s no way you would’ve been fine in there for twenty-four hours. Get some rest,” is all Rob says in response. 

Enjolras doesn’t say another word until Grantaire has bundled him into the passenger seat of his car. As much as Grantaire wants to yell, wants to be pissed that it’s him who got dragged out of bed, who’s dealing with this, he can’t. Not when Enjolras looks like a fallen god; his cheekbones cut impossibly sharp lines across cheeks that, even when swollen with bruises, remain hollow. It’s his eyes that terrify Grantaire, though, because they’re as dull and cloudy as a rainy day up on the coast of Maine. Grantaire has always been able to read Enjolras through those eyes, but he can’t, now. It’s like the Enjolras isn’t in them, anymore. 

“Please don’t take me home.” Enjolras barely gets out the words, a single tear dripping down his swollen, cut nose. Grantaire doesn’t want to make more out of that plea than there is, but it feels monumental. No one should beg not to go home, right? That’s not normal. 

“I wasn’t going to. Enjolras…” God, Grantaire can’t believe he’s about to ask this, but all of the signs are pointing in a horrifying direction. “The police said you were fighting, but I have to ask. Was this--”

“No,” Enjolras says, head snapping up. His eyes are rimmed with red, and the only thing focused in his eyes is fear. He’s not technically lying; his current look is courtesy of one of Guillarme’s friends, but there’s layers to his bruises, now. And all of the ones underneath the top are his. 

“Then what happened?” Grantaire’s voice is shaking. He doesn’t believe Enjolras’s answer, he really doesn’t. Not when it looks like Enjolras can’t even convince himself. 

“I didn’t mean for them to call you. I’m sorry,” is all Enjolras says, before curling up into a ball until they’re back at Grantaire’s apartment. 

He lets Grantaire dab antiseptic on the cuts, lets him force some crackers into Enjolras. They come back up twenty minutes later, swimming in vodka. Only vodka. 

Enjolras hates the taste of it. He always has.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Enjolras mumbles, and Grantaire knows if he opens his mouth he’s going to start crying right now, so he just wipes off Enjolras’s mouth and helps him to the sofa. Enjolras’s eyes are barely open now, but when Grantaire goes to leave, to give Enjolras space, skeletal fingers are around his wrist.

“You ate pancakes two days ago,” Enjolras says, as if this is the most important thing in the universe. 

“Enjolras, you should get some rest--” But Enjolras is insistent, now. 

“My shirt still smells like pancakes, even though it’s been almost two days. And I-- I remembered how you used to make banana and chocolate-chip pancakes on Sunday mornings, and I just… I couldn’t do it, anymore. I finally went to sell the ring--” 

“You’re not making sense, E. What ring?” 

Enjolras fishes around his neck, yanking a chain off with clumsy fingers and handing it to Grantaire. On it is a simple silver band, engraved with a date. 

Their anniversary.

“I got drunk enough to finally do it. But I went to the shop, and Guillarme’s friend was there. I had… I had told him I got rid of it a while ago, and his friend was going to tell him, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t--” Enjolras breaks down completely, sobs harsh and painful. “He’s probably told him. He’s going to be so angry.” 

Grantaire doesn’t… he has no idea what to do about this. He’s happy; his new partner is amazing and funny and kind, but Enjolras was going to _propose_ to him. 

It’s obvious that Enjolras isn’t happy. 

Grantaire has known Enjolras since the seventh grade, was there when his parents kicked him out, when he didn’t get the scholarship he needed to go to college, through all the nights drinking wine on the roof of their apartment building and all of the terrible fights, and it’s never been like this. Enjolras isn’t Enjolras right now, because Enjolras is never terrified. He’s been scared, yeah, but when Enjolras is scared he confronts whatever it is head-on. 

Apparently, Enjolras terrified is nothing like Enjolras scared. 

“I’m so sorry, R. I’m sorry,” Enjolras blubbers, but Grantaire can’t speak, not in the multitude of what he’s learning. He just pulls Enjolras close, feels the familiar weight of Enjolras’s head on his neck. 

Enjolras doesn’t remember the last time he had this kind of contact, and he clings to Grantaire. He cries, cries harder than he has since the night they broke up. He wants to tell Grantaire, explain to him how he’s barely holding his atoms together, that if he’s not careful he’s going to fall apart and be blown so far across the universe that nothing will put him back together, but he can’t do anything but struggle to breathe as Grantaire’s arms keep him safe. 

Grantaire gets some more crackers and some water into Enjolras before he finally gives in to the exhaustion. 

Grantaire’s got a lot of planning and thinking to do, but he knows there’s no way he’s letting Enjolras go back to Guillarme. Not when the only thing in Enjolras’s stomach besides a few crackers was vodka. Not when he remembers that he hasn’t seen Enjolras eat in all of the time they’ve spent together at the restaurant.

:: ::

But Grantaire dozes off, and so Enjolras slips away, leaving only the ring behind. Sitting there, in the dullness of a Sunday morning just after dawn, Grantaire can’t stop thinking. He’s thinking about a few weeks ago, when Enjolras had stayed later than he’d meant to at the cafe, and Guillarme had been on a night shift that just ended. Enjolras had left in a panic.

Grantaire hadn’t seen Enjolras until three days later.

He’d shown up every day at the diner, but the staff had told him every time that Enjolras was sick. When he’d finally returned, one eye had been swollen and purple, melded with the tired circles under Enjolras’s eyes. Enjolras was all but nonverbal. 

Guillarme had been there, making lewd comments about Enjolras to his friends as he served them their food, leering at Grantaire. It was a fucking challenge, and Grantaire had backed down. 

Because he wished, god he wished, he could punch a hole through Guillarme’s face and not give a shit about the consequences, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t punch Enjolras’s asshole boyfriend when he couldn’t know without a doubt that hurting Guillarme wouldn’t turn back around and result in Enjolras being hurt. 

Grantaire isn’t thinking like that, now, because Grantaire’s hands are shaking. His vision is blurring, his heartbeat drowning out the sounds of the city. He knows how things ended between them, okay? He _knows_ , but Enjolras scared him last night. Because it _wasn’t_ him. 

Enjolras had stopped drinking at nineteen years old, when his boss had been both too smart and too kind. Take a raise, and stop the drinking, he’d offered, or he’d keep Enjolras on until he could find another job. And Enjolras had stopped. Until he had broken down again, clutching Grantaire’s toilet and throwing up what smells like pure ethanol. 

Grantaire knows Enjolras, and it’s then that he knows something is terribly wrong, and there’s only one goddamn thing it could be. Enjolras is the type to go buy a ring like that, but he’s not the type to cling to it with bloody fingers while getting the shit kicked out of him. Enjolras is the type of person that would love talking philosophy and math and space with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, would love to sit at midnight in a booth eating french fries with his friends, but Enjolras is at the edge of the group, the last to arrive and the first to leave. Grantaire remembers when they would sit on the roof, arguing about art and Mars and anything else, but now it’s a good day when Enjolras responds with more than a few words. It’s a great day when he smiles, but even then, his voice isn’t his voice. Everything is duller, smaller, like Enjolras is afraid to take up space with his words. 

Grantaire loves Enjolras, no matter what. Nothing is ever going to fucking change that, even if they’re dating other people. And he can’t sit there in the diner for one day longer listening to that asshole say shit about Enjolras, can’t sit there and freeze when Enjolras clearly needs someone to help him. 

He has no fucking clue what he’s going to do. He’s pissed, he’s so furious and hurt and unable to process why someone would do that to _Enjolras_. 

But he’s going to do something.

:: ::

Enjolras shows up again, four days later. Grantaire knows this, because he’s at the diner, unable to ignore the bruises on Enjolras’s jaw, the tiredness across his entire body, the way he’s moving slowly and gingerly.

Grantaire is barely hanging on. His hands are shaking... trembling, really. There’s something dangerous and furious in his core, and he can’t fucking sit there any longer. So he goes out for a smoke.

And then he sees _him_ , strutting down the street like everything is fucking perfect. 

And something just breaks. 

Guillarme barely gets onto the same block as the restaurant before Grantaire decks him. The cops hanging across the street immediately run over, breaking up the brawl before it can really get started. It’s only when Grantaire is pressed up against the hood of the car that his vision clears. And his heart plummets into his stomach. 

He hadn’t thought about what the consequences would be for Enjolras. Grantaire feels his intestines revolt, and he’s turning his head just enough in case he’s about to vomit whatever he’d eaten for breakfast. Instead, he sees Bahorel. And Grantaire shoots him a pleading look, hoping he fucking understands, that he understands that Grantaire knows he fucked up, that someone needs to get Enjolras away right now so he doesn’t deal with the fallout.

Bahorel nods grimly. 

Something has to be done, because if Enjolras is hurt as a result of this, Grantaire’s never going to be able to forgive himself.

:: ::

“He’s normally here by now,” Enjolras comments after he emerges from the kitchen with his knapsack.

“Enjolras, we need to talk.” That’s Bahorel, and he’s leading Enjolras outside, into his truck. Feuilly’s already waiting inside. 

“What’s going on? What’s wrong with Guillarme?” Enjolras asks, looking fearfully between the two. 

“He’s been arrested.” In a second, Enjolras is fully panicking. 

“Oh my god, I have to get to the station. What happened?” Enjolras is barely breathing, but Bahorel hasn’t even put the key into the ignition. He’s spent the past few weeks reading about how he should do this, preparing for the right time, and he has researched every possible outcome. But not this one. This is something he’s not prepared for, because the stakes are so high; Bahorel has no idea what he’s going to do if he can’t convince Enjolras to leave. He can’t let him go back to that asshole, especially not after what just happened. But he can’t force Enjolras, either. 

Bahorel kind of wants to prove to Grantaire that he’s much better at throwing a punch when he’s pissed off. With some assistance from Grantaire’s face. 

“Enjolras, we’re worried about you.” Bahorel takes a deep breath, preparing to launch into what he’s gone over hundreds of times in his own head, but his heart stutters when Enjolras’s red-rimmed eyes, blown wide with confusion, meet his own. 

“Why?” Enjolras’s voice is harsh, and his arms are wrapped around himself, clutching his ribs tighter when Feuilly wraps an arm around him. 

“Because you’re hurting, man. I think I know why, and, Enjolras, if this is Guillarme, you don’t have to stay with him.” Bahorel’s plan has gone out the window, but he’s not going to panic yet. There’s a chance that this could still work. 

“It’s not that bad,” Enjolras tries, but his hands are shaking and he can’t believe this is happening. He can’t remember what happened that night with Grantaire, but it must be bad because Guillarme is in jail and when he gets home he’s going to be so angry and-- 

“He’s hitting you, Enjolras. That isn’t okay.” That’s Feuilly, and Enjolras is so goddamn tired of fighting. He’s tired of fighting not be scared every fucking second, he’s tired of fighting back hunger pains because Guillarme doesn’t want him eating at work, now, and he’s tired of fighting with his friends over this. 

He’s standing at the precipice of something, the moment when he’s leaning forward and has to choose whether to fall or catch himself. There’s the tugging in his gut telling him that he has to pull himself back upright, that it’s dangerous to go any further. 

Is it simpler to fall? 

His knees aren’t what they used to be. They’re bruised from scrubbing the floor last night, swollen and aching from holding up the weight of his own bones, muscles, tendons. Enjolras doesn’t know why, but his mind his hovering so high above his body; it could be exhaustion, or hunger, or the implications of what Bahorel’s saying. But he does know that his knees can’t take another fall. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” Enjolras can barely force the words out, his breath knocked out of him because he’s finally telling the truth. “I have no money, and he knows where I work.” 

“If you want, we can drive over to your place right now, pack up your things, and you can stay with us for as long as you need to.” Bahorel makes sure that Enjolras is looking at him when he says it, because Enjolras needs to know that this is real, that it’s not some cruel trick.

“I couldn’t… you have your own life, and I can’t--” But Enjolras can’t get the words out. It feels like he’s coughing up the water in his lungs, that on the other side of this pain he might be able to breathe freely, again. 

He’s not happy with Guillarme. He knows that, and maybe he can finally believe that he’d be happier without him. Or at least it might be something better than bruised lips and bloody teeth. 

“We’re your friends. We want to help you, Enjolras. We love you, and we don’t want to see you be hurt,” Bahorel says, and suddenly Enjolras has thrown his arms around Bahorel. They’re so thin, and he’s shaking, crying so hard, but he’s holding on as tightly as he can. Bahorel, in turn, wraps his arms around Enjolras’s back. He ignores the way his fingers can feel the space between Enjolras’s ribs, just focuses on holding Enjolras as tightly as he can. He needs Enjolras to know that he’s serious, that he’s here and he’s not going anywhere. 

Bahorel wishes that he could let Enjolras see what it’s been like, watching him deteriorate. Bahorel has known Enjolras longer than anyone, had been there when Enjolras was just the tiny, skinny kid who moved in next door. He knows that Enjolras is capable of everything, that he’s strong and this isn’t the first time he’s been in a rough place. But it’s the first time that Enjolras hasn’t let him in. Bahorel has no idea what’s going on, and so he has no idea what the fuck he can do to help. He’s tried: he’s offered Enjolras his couch after late shifts, he’s tried to pull Enjolras away from Guillarme for just one afternoon, but all he’s been able to do is sit there, in the dark of the diner before closing, and try to impress on Enjolras that he’s here, that it doesn’t have to be like this. 

He thinks the darkness is finally lifting, that whatever terrible divide Guillarme had between Enjolras and the world is crumbling. And Bahorel will do anything to hold back the terrible, choking darkness, won’t let Enjolras disappear again.

So Bahorel holds him, terrified that if he doesn’t, it’ll all swallow Enjolras whole again. 

When Enjolras finally calms down enough that Bahorel is comfortable transferring him to Feuilly, who just lets Enjolras’s arms snake around him and starts running his fingers through Enjolras’s curls. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, words muffled by Feuilly’s collarbone. But then he goes silent, only saying his address before he feels himself go numb. 

There’s too much; he’s terrified about leaving, he’s terrified because he knows he couldn’t have stayed, and he can’t decide which decision is worse. But Feuilly’s voice is soft and he doesn’t let go of Enjolras, and Enjolras can’t bring himself to untangle himself. It’s been so long; Feuilly remembers the nights Grantaire was still out and Enjolras was exhausted but refused to sleep until he knew Grantaire was safe. Feuilly would play with his curls just like this until Enjolras finally fell asleep.

Enjolras doesn’t fall asleep, this time. Enjolras stays tense until they pull up to a dirty old building, and he helps Bahorel carry some boxes up the stairs. His face heats with shame when he can’t even fill five of them, and he just wants to leave. He knows he’s shutting down; the spinning is intensifying, and he’s not following the soft, gentle conversation Bahorel seems intent on keeping up. 

There’s a buzzing, and it’s growing louder as the world blurs and pitches. 

But it’s only when he stands, just after closing the last box, that the world goes grey and he feels himself fall into Bahorel. Without any hesitation, Bahorel’s scooped Enjolras up, the boxes abandoned on the floor in favor of getting Enjolras out of there. 

“I’m fine. I can help bring them--” But Enjolras is slurring his words, and Bahorel easily shushes him. Bahorel isn’t sure if it’s shock or dehydration or something else, entirely, but Feuilly will know better than him. So he deposits Enjolras, who’s still trying to protest, back into the truck.

“He never lost consciousness, but when he stood up his knees gave out. I’m going to run and get the boxes and make sure Joly and ‘Ferre are at the apartment.” 

When Bahorel slides back into the driver’s seat, Enjolras’s head is on Feuilly’s shoulder. Feuilly is holding a water bottle, but Enjolras just shakes his head whenever Feuilly offers it to him to drink. 

“Any word from Joly?” Feuilly asks, his face creased with worry. “He’s barely tracking.” 

“Joly thinks it’s a combination of the stress from this all and the stress his body has already been through. He just went to get a lot of electrolyte-replenishers and nutrition shakes and all that shit. They’re all there already, so let’s just get going.” 

Bahorel smooths Enjolras’s curls back, before driving away. He’s trying not to worry; Enjolras decided to leave. That means this gets better, right?

:: ::

Before Bahorel can even unlock his own door, Combeferre is there. He guides Enjolras to the sofa, letting him lean almost all of his weight on him. A Gatorade is thrust into his hands, and Joly is crouching in front of him.

“Drink,” is all Joly says, his voice as firm as Enjolras has ever heard it. He has some trouble operating the cap with his trembling fingers, but under Joly’s scrutinizing gaze he manages a few sips before he sets it down on the table. “You’re going to have to drink more than that, Enjolras.” 

Sighing, Enjolras picks up the bottle again. He drinks a little more, but not nearly enough. It’s sticky and sugary, coating his throat, and Enjolras doesn’t like it. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Combeferre asks, sitting next to Enjolras and taking his wrist gently, and though he’s trying to be subtle Enjolras knows he’s taking his pulse. He guesses he appreciates the effort, though. 

“Today at work.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the answer Combeferre’s looking for, either. 

“How long was it before then?” Dammit, Enjolras hates that Bahorel knows him well enough to know his exact lying pattern, and that he’s always been way too good at sorting the truths from the rest.

“With Grantaire,” Enjolras rasps out, head bowed so he doesn’t have to look at the sad looks on his friends’ faces. He knows, he knows he’s such a fucking burden: he was to Guillarme, he must have been to Grantaire, and now it’s on everyone. 

The wave of self-loathing is so strong that Enjolras has to fight not to vomit. He’s so fucking weak. He’s so weak that he ran straight from Guillarme into someone else’s arms, unable to stand for one goddamn second on his own. He doesn’t even really know why he left; he can’t quit his job, and it’s not like Guillarme is going to just accept a breakup that easily. 

“Enjolras, that was days ago,” Joly says, and Enjolras just shrugs, twisting his hands. He’s not looking at any of them. 

“I ordered a shitton of pizza. It’ll be here in half an hour,” Feuilly says. He’s on a chair on the opposite side of the room, because Enjolras is shutting down again, and crowding him isn’t going to help anything. 

“It’s fine. You don’t have to do that,” Enjolras says immediately, his head dropping further as he tries to hide the tears slipping down his nose onto his hands. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying; is he crying over everything he’s admitted, or everything that he hasn’t? 

He has no idea what to do. Can he ask them for help with this? There’s so much that he has to fix, right now; he needs a new place to live, and he probably needs another job, a way to afford food until then, and he knows they’re not going to want him going back to that diner job so he’s going to have to find a replacement for that, too. 

It’s too much. That emptiness, the consuming, black, looming loneliness is back; he can almost forget the harsh words and the fists and every other thing Guillarme did if he focuses hard enough on the good nights, when Guillarme’s arms around him were tight but not suffocating. 

So Enjolras starts to cry, because he has no idea what else to do right now. 

There’s a voice, one that sounds like Grantaire, telling him to just reach out, that if he just lifts his head and lets them see, that they’ll be there. But he can’t. He can’t ask that of them, can’t ask them to be waiting every time Enjolras plunges into the abyss. That isn’t fair to them. 

But Enjolras falls over the ledge anyways, because his ribs are still sore from something or another and his next breath is harsh and before he knows it his shoulders are shaking and his crying isn’t silent anymore. 

He doesn’t know whose arms wrap around him, pull him into them, but he can’t help but hold on. Their hands are soft, rubbing circles on his back, holding his head to their chest. Enjolras squirms, because he shouldn’t be asking for this, but whoever is holding him is stronger, and holds Enjolras more tightly than ever. 

Enjolras lets them. 

“You back with us, man?” A voice asks some time later, and Enjolras picks up his head, his watery eyes meeting Feuilly’s. Enjolras looks back at his hands, but he nods. “That’s good. Grantaire and Courfeyrac are on their way back, and the pizza is almost here. You want to pick a movie?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Enjolras winces at his own voice, at the crack and whistle of his own breath. “Where were they?” 

“Oh, shit,” Bahorel mutters. “He and Guillarme… they got in a fight. That’s why he was arrested. Well, they both were,” he explains, and Enjolras bolts upright, ignoring how his head spins and how the world blurs. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Enjolras mutters, his hands wrapping around himself and his knees shooting up to his chest. He’s dimly aware of how loud and harsh his breathing is in his ears, but it doesn’t matter: Guillarme hurt Grantaire, and Enjolras doesn’t know exactly how but he knows it’s his fault. Why can’t he exist without hurting everyone he cares about? 

The noise around him grows, but it’s nothing but buzzing and hissing. He can’t think, can’t breathe--oh god, he can’t breathe. 

There are hands, tilting his chin so his eyes meet Joly’s, and his mouth is moving but Enjolras can’t hear anything he’s saying. His other hand pries one of Enjolras’s off of his ribcage, pressing it to his chest. Enjolras knows he’s supposed to feel Joly’s heartbeat and breathe to it, but he can’t when there’s nothing to breathe. 

R is hurt, Guillarme hurt R, R is hurt because of Enjolras. 

It’s all Enjolras can hear, can think, as the black creeping into his vision starts to swallow Joly. It’s all he can hear until the very last speck of light disappears and Enjolras is shoved back into darkness.

:: ::

It’s hard, waking up. Everything is blurred, and it takes his eyes a long time to focus; his feet are elevated in Bahorel’s lap, and someone is playing with his curls.

Enjolras gasps. It’s Grantaire, nose swollen and bruised, with a cut through his lip. 

But before he can do anything, can say anything to apologize, to fix this, Grantaire’s hands move to his shoulders, stopping Enjolras before he can even try to sit up.

“Easy, Enj,” he warns, voice tender. What has Enjolras done to deserve this kind of compassion from him?

“R,” is all Enjolras can manage to say, his clumsy hand reaching up to the bruises. Grantaire just grasps the hand, and he slowly pulls Enjolras into a sitting position, leaning the blond against him, and his other hand pressing the damn Gatorade back into Enjolras’s hand.

“Take it slowly. Can you take a few more sips, for me? Please.” Enjolras shouldn’t be this easy to control, but it works. He’d do anything for Grantaire, anything that he asks. 

Enjolras’s hands are shaking, and Grantaire uncaps it for him when it’s clear he can’t do it himself. Slowly, he raises the trembling bottle to his lips, just managing to take a few sips without spilling. But when he goes to hand it back to Grantaire, he shakes his head.

“Come on, E. A little bit more.” 

By the time the cycle ends, the entire bottle is gone. Enjolras feels more grounded, as much as he hates to admit it, and Grantaire is looking at him with so much fucking care and pride that Enjolras can’t stand it one second longer. 

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, trying again to touch Grantaire’s cheek, but his coordination is still shit. It scares him, how bad everything still is. 

Would it have been worse if he would have stayed?

“I’m fine, E. How are you doing?” Grantaire’s leg is pressed against Enjolras’s, and he actively leans Enjolras into him. 

“I’m okay.” But Enjolras’s voice cracks, and Grantaire holds on just a little bit tighter. 

“I’m so sorry, Enjolras,” he whispers, and Enjolras pulls away, his fingers twisting together in what has to be a painful manner.

“Why?” Enjolras asks, his face dropping to look at his hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Hey, stop that,” Grantaire urges, laying a hand over both of Enjolras’s, and the twisting stops. “I punched your asshole boyfriend without thinking about what the consequences might be for you. That was wrong.” 

“Nothing happened. I’m here.” Enjolras’s voice cracks; he has no idea what would have happened if he hadn’t, if he had been there when Guillarme got home. 

“Enjolras.” Grantaire breathes out Enjolras’s name, the same way he did when Enjolras showed up at his door when he was sixteen years old. And just like then, Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras, and Enjolras melts into him.

Or, he would, but his arms just happen to settle against the ribs that don’t feel right. Enjolras lets out a harsh breath, and then Grantaire’s arms, so warm and strong and gentle, are shifting, forcing Enjolras to sit up.

“Shirt off. Now.” His voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it that’s saturated with worry. Enjolras doesn’t move, because he knows Grantaire isn’t going to like what he sees. And he doesn’t know--he doesn’t know if it’s going to be anger or pity on Grantaire’s face, but he doesn’t want either. 

“Enjolras, please.” That’s Combeferre, advancing with a medical kit in his hands. Enjolras raises trembling hands to his work polo, and just barely manages to pull it off without gasping in pain. 

“Holy shit,” Grantaire mutters, standing up and backing away as Joly and Combeferre descend. 

“It’s really fine,” Enjolras mumbles, and Joly doesn’t know if he can respond without crying, so all he does is help Enjolras lay down. His chest is a splotchy mess of red and black and purple; he might have broken ribs, cracked ones at the very least, and he didn’t tell anyone. 

“It’s really not,” Combeferre shoots out, just as his fingers ghost over the worst of the bruising. There’s no shift of the bone beneath his fingers, and Combeferre can finally breathe. They’re not broken. 

In a matter of twenty minutes, Enjolras has his ribs bandaged and ice packs to bring down the swelling. Now that the overwhelming panic has melted into low-grade anxiety, Enjolras can feel the shooting pains in his ribs, as dulled as they are by the cold. 

“You should eat something,” Bahorel says, when Enjolras (with help from Grantaire) manages to pull himself to an upright position again. 

But when Enjolras goes to get up and get it, Grantaire’s hand on his shoulder keeps him firmly on the couch.

“I can get it,” Enjolras argues, because he is _not_ glass. He’s fine… he worked a seven hour shift today and he was fine. 

“You probably have cracked ribs, Enjolras. You need to rest,” Joly says, already heading to the kitchen. When he returns, he has another Gatorade and a plate with three pieces of Enjolras’s favorite pizza on it. 

“It was a few days ago. I’m honestly fine,” Enjolras tries to argue, ignoring the Gatorade’s presence entirely. He does take a piece of pizza, though. 

“I’m still not convinced that we shouldn’t take you for an x-ray,” Combeferre says, nudging the drink closer. “We still might have to, if the swelling doesn’t go down or if your pain level rises.”

“I told you that I’m fine, really.” There’s an edge to Enjolras’s voice, now. He knows how to take care of himself, has since he was a teenager. But because he’s left Guillarme, it’s like they all think he’s a pot that’s smashed to the floor, that if they put any pressure on the broken pieces that they’re going to shatter into dust, slip right through their fingers.

But Enjolras doesn’t need to be put back together. 

“Look, none of us really know what we’re doing right now.” That’s Bahorel, noticing how taught Enjolras’s body is, now. “I have no fucking clue what to say, what to do, to make this shit better. Because it never should have happened in the first place.” He takes a deep breath, hand rubbing his beard in an effort to keep from crying. This isn’t about him, so he can’t fall apart. Not when Enjolras desperately needs to. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we didn’t do anything before shit got this bad, but please, Enjolras, let us help.” 

“It’s not your fault.” Enjolras barely whispers the words. “It’s not. I should have… I knew it wasn’t okay, but I let him anyway.” 

“Enjolras, nothing about what he did to you was your fault.” Grantaire’s hand covers Enjolras’s own, even though they’re both shaking. “Please, you have to believe that.”

“I stayed with him.” Enjolras tries to twist his hands, but one of Bahorel’s joins Grantaire’s on top of both of Enjolras’s, and with no other outlet for his swelling anxiety, Enjolras opens his mouth again. “How… how long did you know?” 

“A while. But we didn’t know how bad until after the night you were arrested.” Grantaire’s voice is impossibly soft. “We tried… we were trying to talk to you about it, but it was hard when you were barely there. You wouldn’t even speak, sometimes, and we didn’t want to… we couldn’t risk driving you farther away.” 

That’s when the last tendon breaks, and Enjolras’s heart crashes to the bottom of his ribcage.

He can’t stand the sadness that’s in Grantaire’s voice, and he knows that if he looks up, every single one of them, they’d look the way those words sound. If he looks up, he’s going to start talking. 

And then everyone would know. Would they hate him?

Enjolras can’t, he can’t. He knows he’s terrible at being alone, and he thinks about the crushing loneliness, the feeling of his ribcage collapsing under the pressure. He couldn’t handle it, after being with Grantaire for so long, and he’d practically jumped into Guillarme’s arms at the first chance. He was so fucking terrified of being left alone with himself that he’d honestly rather stay with someone like that than be alone. He’s terrified that if he looks up, they’re going to see what Enjolras has so desperately tried to hide: Enjolras is rotting on the inside, nothing more than just a pile of broken gears and half-finished machines left to rust. They’re going to see the worst parts of him, and then they’re going to leave. And it’ll just be him, and he _can’t_ do that; without Guillarme, without someone else there, he’ll have to see what’s really hidden in the blackest corners of himself. He can’t retreat farther, not when it feels like there’s nothing darker than the corner he’s backed himself into.

Can he even see the light anymore?

What if… what if he let them see? What happens if he looks up, takes a breath, and tells them what happened? 

Everything is going to change. There’s no backing out of it once he starts. They’ll know, because he’ll tell them. He’ll tell them about the way he couldn’t breathe, not unless he was half-past tipsy, and that’s why he had that water bottle at work. He’ll tell them, he’ll tell them about how he never really liked Guillarme, but he wanted to feel something, wanted to feel like he wasn’t returning to dust and water. He’ll tell them about how he dug fingers into bruises Guillarme left because it was the only thing that could shock him out of driving himself mad with anxiety, sometimes. They’ll never treat him, see him, the same way again. 

What if they just see _him_? 

How can Enjolras do that? It’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt him and it’s going to hurt them. But if he does, is it going to be like drowning? Or is it finally stepping out of the water, stepping into the sunlight? 

Enjolras looks at his hands. But then he breathes, closes them, lifts his chin, breathes again. Enjolras opens his eyes.

Then he speaks.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I would love it you would tell me what you think either in the comments or on my tumblr, thoseunheard. 
> 
> I'm sorry for the lack of posting as of late--I'm crawling towards the end of the semester right now, but I should have some more time this summer, so if there's something you want to see, let me know and I'll attempt to write it. :) Also, not gonna lie, I definitely was listing to happier/sonya alone/words fail the entire time I wrote this so if there's similarities, you know why. 
> 
> thanks for reading!


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